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Rating:
Mature
Archive Warnings:
Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death
Category:
Multi
Fandoms:
Parahumans Series - Wildbow呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga)
Characters:
Gojo SatoruTaylor Hebert | Skitter | WeaverVictoria Dallon | Glory Girl | AntaresAmy Dallon | Panacea | Red QueenBrockton Bay WardsHannah | Hana | Miss MilitiaColin Wallis | Armsmaster | DefiantEmily PiggotSukuna | Ryoumen SukunaEmma Barnes (Parahumans)Kenjaku | Fake Getou Suguru
Additional Tags:
CrossoverCrossovers & Fandom FusionsFix-ItAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceReincarnationSoul BondAlt-Power Taylor HebertWard Taylor Hebert | Skitter | WeaverHero Taylor Hebert | Skitter | WeaverGojo Satoru is a Little ShitGojo Satoru Being Gojo SatoruSmug Gojo SatoruSix Eyes (Jujutsu Kaisen)Overpowered Taylor Hebert | Skitter | WeaverGojo and Taylor are OneSlow Burn
Language:
English
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Published:2025-12-06Updated:2026-05-30Words:60,746Chapters:5/?Comments:714Kudos:1,617Bookmarks:672Hits:48,384
The Strongest
TheSmilingFox
Chapter 3: C6H12O6
Chapter Text
1/The Strongest, Again
C6H12O6
The door to Taylor's hospital room clicked shut.
Hana stepped into the hallway and turned. The suited PRT agents stood farther down, vigilant, backs half-turned, eyes fixed anywhere but on her. The corridor had been swept clear as per instructed.
She looked towards the door again.
Danny didn't move.
His hand stayed on the knob, fingers curled too tight, knuckles pale. He stared down at the scuffed linoleum, or perhaps at his own hand.
She couldn't tell where his gaze settled, but Hana could guess the thoughts in his mind. She'd seen this kind of pause too many times. Parents bargaining for one more smile, a version of their child that hadn't slipped out of reach. Friends etching a final ordinary second into memory, knowing it had to last a lifetime.
Taylor wasn't dead. She wasn't dying.
But the way her father stood there, shoulders bowed… it said enough. At least more than Hana wanted to know.
Eventually, he let go. The metal clicked faintly as the handle settled back into place. He turned toward Hana, slumping, then stalled. For a second their eyes met before his hands came up to scrub at his face, digging into the sockets as if he could pry the exhaustion loose. He let out a rough, wet exhalation into his palms.
"That was…" he started, voice muffled. A second later he let his hands fall, sniffed, glasses slightly askew. "…That was something."
Hana inclined her head. She waited until his eyes refocused on her, until the sheen of unshed tears was more or less gone.
"I know," she said. "A trigger event is never easy, for the victim, or for those who care about them. It's a lesson we've learned repeatedly. It is also why we have structures in place. Taylor may be an outlier in specifics, but not in category. We are prepared."
Danny stared at her. Past her, probably, at the impassive PRT agents. Then he let out a huff that could've been a laugh.
"My girl… she wasn't wrong when she lit into you," he observed. "You don't really do conversations that aren't official, do you? Nothing but procedure and stuff?"
Hana blinked once, slowly. She clasped her hands behind her back, spine straightening by habit. The weight at her hip shifted, handgun vibrating at her thigh as if receiving an electrical current.
"It's not a matter of preference," she replied. "May I speak frankly, Mister Hebert?"
He offered a tentative nod. Hana closed her eyes for a heartbeat before resuming.
"What happened to your daughter isn't a gift," she explained. "It's a scar. And scars like this tend to split open under pressure."
She saw the tension immediately gathering at Danny's jaw.
"This situation isn't a comic book plot. Powers are not colorful little quirks, but symptoms, of instability, of trauma left to fester. And next time it boils over, it will be armed with abilities that render conventional solutions useless. Guns, handcuffs, even words… they won't do much against a parahuman who's out of control."
Behind her scarf, she allowed herself a smile. Her eyes set somewhere on a nearby wall. On the dull grey color that looked too much like the sheen of a gun.
"People like to pretend superpowers come with neat rules," she went on. "Costumes, catchphrases. Something you can point at and name. In reality, they come from moments no one survives unchanged. Furthermore…"
She made a gesture with her hand at the room behind Danny.
"…Taylor is now a person of interest. The white hair, the eyes, they are, if you allow me this analogy, a neon sign. We can call it albinism and act as if the medical explanations are comforting enough, but she looks off. People will notice. Many will want her for what she can possibly do. Others will want to hurt her for what she represents."
Danny pushed his glasses up, more forcefully than necessary. He then folded his arms, hugging himself.
"Who?" he asked, quietly. "Who do we need to worry about?"
Hana looked away, down the nearly empty hall.
"The list is regrettably long. Religious zealots. Racial purists. Collectives of the disturbed and the grandiose," she explained. "Insert parahuman abilities into any rigid, absurd ideology, and it stops being absurd. It becomes a threat."
She gestured at the room again.
"Taylor herself is the best example. I won't presume to know how she was before all this, but she was manic for a good portion of the last hour. We don't know the full extent of her abilities. How do we know she won't, intentionally or not, turn them on herself? On others?"
Danny's arms tightened. He seemed to shrink into himself, bracing against a blow. Hana spoke before he could.
"Having spoken with her, would you say there's a difference in Taylor from how she was before the locker? Beyond the physical, obviously."
A shadow settled over Danny's face. He nodded, curt, one hand rising to cover his mouth. Hana saw his cheeks twisting to accommodate a smile.
"It's her. That's my Taylor," he said. "That's her face. Those were her words. She sounds like her and thinks like she would. She… she's always been quieter than other kids. But when she got angry, you could see feel her edge. She had a sharp tongue on her."
The smile faltered a bit.
"But the rest of it?" He shook his head. "The jokes, the confidence, the, uh… the swagger, I guess. She's never worn herself like that. She's never moved or talked like she was, I don't know, full of lightning. Maybe it's the shock. Maybe she's just…"
"…Deflecting?" Hana offered.
He looked at her, the ghost of a grateful smile touching his lips yet again. "Yeah. Deflecting."
Hana didn't confirm anything. She let the silence stretch for about three seconds.
"When everything's taken from someone all at once," she began, "control becomes precious. Refusing help can be a way to keep it."
A pause.
"The PRT won't force a deal she doesn't accept."
Danny exhaled slowly. He sought his words for a pointed second.
"So you won't force her," he echoed.
"No."
"But you'll keep asking."
"Yes."
Another beat. He looked away.
"…It's not about what she likes, though," Danny continued. "It's about what's least bad."
Hana nodded and said nothing else. Danny simply chuckled, maybe at the simplicity of her, or maybe at the fact there was nothing to solve. Just potential issues and an urgency on managing them.
"Runs in the family. The pigheadedness," he said, scratching at the chestnut-flecked stubble on his jaw. "My wife, Annette. She died in a car crash, about two years back."
"I'm sorry."
He waved a dismissive hand, smiling.
"It was… a bad time. I wasn't much of a father then. I wasn't much use to anyone either, least of all her. I was angry, at the world, at the sheer powerlessness of it. I wanted to wake up and find it was a nightmare. Maybe the universe would fix itself, or rewind…"
A nurse approached, then, offering a polite, professional smile. She gestured at the door. Danny stepped aside mechanically and she slipped inside. The interruption seemed to fracture his thoughts. He watched the door close again
"…Instead, I woke up, really woke up, and realized my daughter needed me, and I wasn't there for her. She pulled me back. Whether she knew it or not, she helped me remember I had a responsibility with her. With my wife."
He turned back to the door, reaching for the doorknob. This time, Hana noted his grip seemed steadier.
"I still don't understand any of this. Powers. Parahumans. But you seem decent. So I'll talk to her. Try. Anything to wake her up and make sure she doesn't hurt anymore. She did it with me, once, so I should be able to do the same, even if this is all a little… different."
Hana studied him for a moment. The deep lines, the exhaustion worn thin by sheer persistence. A man who should have collapsed long ago, still upright out of stubborn love.
Behind her scarf, the corner of her mouth lifted, just slightly. And this time, she meant the smile.
"Thank you, Danny," she said. "That is all we can ask. We only want to help."
He nodded, offered her a fragile smile of his own that didn't reach his eyes, and turned the knob. The door swallowed him again, leaving Hana alone in the quiet hall with the silent suits and the hum of the fluorescent lights.
The silence stretched, measured in the thrum of her own pulse. One second. Two. Three.
Hana sighed at the count of four. She barely had the time to curse to herself before a new sound reached her. A heavy tread echoed down the hallway, the familiar thump-thump of heavy footfalls and metal whispering against itself.
She turned.
He rounded the corner, a figure clad in midnight-blue armor, silver streaks catching the lights overhead. He had broad shoulders, long limbs, the kind of presence that made doorframes feel smaller in comparison. Whether it was the man or the suit that took up so much space was a question Hana stopped asking years ago. Both were fundamentally substantial, claiming a spot in the world with a gravity that sometimes felt effortless.
Armsmaster.
His helmet hid everything above the mouth. There was a silver visor where his eyes should've been, reflecting the corridor back at itself. Below, at the lower half of his face, she saw his strong jawline, a neatly kept beard, lips set into an imperturbable line.
He advanced, not exactly angry, but with that focus of his that sometimes felt violent to her. A halberd rode his back, intricate and unmistakably lethal, swaying like a metronome with each step.
The PRT agents melted aside with synchronized nods and a muted "Sir." He passed them without breaking stride.
"Colin," Hana called out, softly.
He slowed, stopped. A slight tilt of his head, as if listening to something only he could hear. He folded his arms, gaze drifting off towards Taylor's room before returning to Hana.
"Miss Militia," he replied. Her codename sounded funny the way he said it. Amused? Perhaps he was. "I received your request for support. What are we looking at?"
"We have an N-P situation," she reported. "She's contained for now. Preliminary contact suggests extrasensory perception of her surroundings. She can see without opening her eyes. I would argue a provisional Thinker rating is warranted."
He nodded once. "Is she inside?" Armsmaster said, gesturing towards the door with his chin.
"Yes. Taylor Hebert, fifteen. She attends Winslow High. She suffered a severe bullying incident on school grounds and there's a strong probability she triggered approximately ninety-six hours ago. No observable collateral or overt manifestation at the time, according to the available testimonies, but…"
She trailed off. Her gaze fixed on a point in the middle distance, ordering the ugly suspicion in her mind before giving it voice. When she spoke again, her volume dropped, for him alone.
"…I have reason to believe Shadow Stalker was the cause of the trigger."
The armored hero went very still. His arms unfolded, hanging at his sides. He flexed his fingers once, twice, a rhythmic clenching that didn't quite turn into fists.
"Explain," he said flatly, licking his lips before angling his helmet towards her, leaning in. He seemed taller. "That's a serious accusation. On what basis are you telling me this?"
Hana pulled off her beret and pressed her thumb to her temple.
"On Taylor's," she said. "The girl named Sophia. Repeatedly. She alleged a campaign of harassment spanning months, possibly more. Even absent immediate physical evidence, the correlation is highly suspect. And given Shadow Stalker's disciplinary record, her profile… the possibility is damning."
She looked up, meeting her own warped reflection in his visor.
"I pressed for details, sought corroborating patterns. Taylor is… fragile. Possibly unstable. But the one consistent element in her story is Sophia. We cannot ignore this. It's an operational and ethical catastrophe in waiting. She's already refused Protectorate overtures three times in an hour. Should we somehow secure her cooperation, placing victim and aggressor on the same organization would be untenable, let alone the same team."
The exposed set of his jaw tightened. The plates across his shoulders locked into a harder line. He recrossed his arms, a slower, more controlled motion, before letting out a hiss through his nose.
"I will… I will submit a request for Shadow Stalker's immediate suspension pending review," he responded. "You will file a concurrent report with Director Piggot to initiate a PRT internal investigation. Even a possibility requires care. We can't salvage one life by ruining another through negligence."
Hana raised her hands, a placating gesture. "I know. Due process. I'm not asking for a verdict. It's just…"
"Frustrating," he supplied.
"Disgusting," Hana corrected, her voice hard. "Sophia's record was problematic. Her attitude was rough. But I believed her heart was in the right place. That she was on the path to becoming a hero."
She replaced the beret on her head.
"At least that's what I believed."
"We don't assume innocence or guilt," Armsmaster replied. "We cannot afford to fraternize with Taylor until the investigation is underway. Only then we can decide how to feel about it all."
"Agreed." Her heels came together firmly. "Containment protocols. Did you bring foam?"
He patted a thick canister on his utility belt. "Never leave home without it."
"Good. We may need it," she said. "Taylor's abilities remain largely undefined. Beyond the panoramic vision, she's also displayed overt physical anomalies similar to those of a Case 53. Whitening hair, change of pigmentation in her eyes from brown to blue, mostly. I don't think she's one of them though."
"Mutations?"
"Undefined also," Hana replied.
"No tattoo?" he pressed on.
"None. The medical staff would've mentioned it."
He nodded.
"And the depth of her 'vision'?"
"Taylor claims to see 'perfectly well' and that everything is 'shiny'. Closing her eyes appears to be a mitigation strategy for sensory overload, but it doesn't impede her visual acuity in the slightest. She also made a joke about seeing through clothes, but she could've been taunting me."
"X-ray spectrum? Infrared thermography?" he mused, already turning toward the door, a hand hovering near the knob.
"She…" Hana began, then exhaled, the heel of her hand pressing once more against her forehead. "…You will need to assist with the classification. One hour with this girl and I already have a migraine. What, precisely, is a 'Busy Beaver'?"
Armsmaster froze, his hand pausing an inch from the door. He turned his head toward her, the visor a blank, silver question mark.
"That's oddly specific," he stated. "Context?"
"She described her vision as equivalent to human sight, multiplied by 'Busy Beaver', and then multiplied by God. That's verbatim by the way."
Hana kept her voice utterly level, relaying the absurdity as pure data. Silence hung for a moment. The armored hero stood still.
"…The Busy Beaver function," he began, measured, "denotes the maximum number of steps a halting Turing machine with *n* states can execute prior to termination, given an initially blank tape."
Hana stared.
"I'm fluent in four languages," she said flatly. "I still didn't understand a thing you just said."
A faint, almost imperceptible grunt escaped him. She could've sworn he smiled.
"A simplified analogy, then. The Busy Beaver is a competition to find the smallest program that produces the longest, most computationally complex output before stopping. It's a little experiment created by a Hungarian mathematician."
Hana nodded slowly, a student awaiting translation.
"And?"
"It demonstrates inherent limits of knowledge," he continued, unfazed. "Even with simple, fixed rules, certain outcomes are undecidable. You cannot reliably predict whether a given program will run indefinitely or halt. Any predictive rule you devise can be exploited by a program designed to contravene it. It is a paradox of self-reference. There is no universal solution."
Another pause. Her eyebrow twitched in a minute, traitorous rhythm.
"So, to summarize," she intoned. "A fifteen-year-old trauma victim, in the midst of a psychiatric crisis, has effectively informed that I'm intellectually incapable of comprehending her experience, because her perception operates on a level of such complexity it's fundamentally indescribable to people like us."
One second. Two.
"…A high schooler called me basic."
Armsmaster's mouth twitched.
She raised a threatening finger.
"Not. A. Word," she ordered.
"I haven't said anything."
"You thought about it," Hana accused.
He didn't deny it, which was a backhanded sort of confirmation.
Armsmaster didn't speak for a moment. There was the sound of the faint servos in his leg armor adjusting his stance.
"It's unsettling," he observed. "That she knows something so specific and that she'd make that association in particular. And then, 'multiply by God'."
Hana gave a slower nod. Her head felt heavy.
"That's just an example among many," she explained. "She… doesn't miss a beat. She's sarcastic, and her jokes land too fast for someone who should be bawling her eyes out. Her father says she's always been clever but not this loud. It could be severe psychological distress, or just a coping mechanism. Until she's evaluated by an expert, guessing won't help."
"It does smell adjacent to a 53," he offered. "Are you sure she—"
"—She retains her memories, apparently," Hana cut in. "She could be an outlier. Though she did shift from manic to sad to sarcastic without much trouble. Laughing, crying, laughing again, and so on. I question her sanity more than her origin right now."
Armsmaster hummed. "A definitive classification will require—"
"Oh my GOD!"
The scream tore through the door.
Armsmaster moved before the echo died. He pivoted to the remaining agents, his voice a crack of command. "Secure this corridor. If we do not signal all-clear in five minutes, initiate evacuation of adjacent rooms."
The agents were already moving, radios to mouths, footsteps retreating.
Hana's hand was at her hip, not on the grip, but poised. The space where her pistol once sat suddenly felt empty.
"I'll go in first," she said. "I have rapport with her. You will be escalation."
Armsmaster shifted aside, hand hovering near his belt. His halberd's deployment mechanism gave a soft click-hiss. "Foam ready."
She nodded… then reached inward.
The construct of her power was already there, always there, a sleeping arsenal in the back of her mind. She focused on a shape, a function, and a specific, brutal utility.
.357 Magnum. Six-inch barrel. Six chambers. Hollow-points and rubber. Hammer back on arrival.
A cloud of green-black mist manifested, strands of oil-slick light swirling and condensing with a sound like a sigh into solidity.
The weight of the revolver settled into her palm, cool and certain. She felt, more than knew, the internal mechanism resolve, each round seating itself: rubber, lead, rubber, lead, rubber, lead. A staggered promise. Restraint, and then force.
Less moving parts. Less chances to fail. If it came to it, a non-lethal round to the center mass could create an opening. The alternative was already loaded, waiting.
Her hand closed around the doorknob.
Armsmaster's hand came down on her shoulder, firm, grounding. Two taps. She nodded and nudged the door open.
"Taylor?" Hana said, calm, keeping the revolver low and behind her thigh.
She stepped inside, and…
…And the room looked wrong.
Doctor Schmidt and the nurse were pressed against the far wall, their backs flat to the plaster as if trying to merge with it. The doctor's clipboard lay discarded at his feet. Their faces were bloodless, eyes wide and unblinking.
Hana's eyes snapped to the bed. The sheets were a tangled heap on the floor. The mattress was empty.
She looked up.
Taylor was seated in the air.
Not drifting around, not floating erratically. Sitting. She was cross-legged, as if on an invisible cushion, hands resting loosely on her knees. Her hospital gown pooled around her. Her white hair caught the light and shone brighter. Her blue eyes were half-lidded, a detached, almost beatific expression on her face.
She smiled.
Danny stood beside her, arm outstretched, his hand hovering just inches from her shoulder. He was not pulling her down, nor was he touching her. His fingers were splayed, trembling, pressed against an invisible something. He pushed, the muscles in his forearm corded with strain, but his hand advanced no further.
Hana glanced back at Armsmaster, a fractional movement of her head. My lead.
His helmet dipped once.
She took a slow step forward. Another. Her focus split between the serene girl in the air and the father fighting an unseen force.
"Taylor," she said, layering a tone of gentle authority over the steel beneath. "I'm Miss Militia. Do you remember me? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"
Hana closed the distance until she was within arm's reach of Danny, close enough to see the sweat beading on his temple. Her finger slid inside the trigger guard, resting on the curve. She angled the revolver up, just slightly.
The girl's lips parted.
"I… am Jesus."
The statement landed softly, both absurd and somehow profound.
Hana's tactical assessment slammed into a wall. Religious delusion? Psychotic break? Master effect?
For a fraction of a second, the room seemed to hold its breath with her. She searched Taylor's face for cracks, for strain, for fevered certainty.
There was only calm.
Then it shattered.
Taylor snorted, a burst of genuine, sparkling laughter escaping her. Her eyes crinkled shut for a second.
"Pfft… HAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh, man, ya shoulda seen yo' face!" she giggled, swiping at the corner of one eye. "Nah, don't worry. Definitely not Jesus. That's too tacky, innit?"
Her head lolled from side to side.
"I'm more like… like Siddhartha, yeah! But, y'know, the reboot. Cute teenage girl edition. I'm all like, throughout Heaven and, uh… something something. Feel me? Yeah, you definitely do, heh."
She grinned down at Hana, her manic energy flooding back into the room, now charged with a new and unsettling power.
Hana raised her hand. Her empty palm faced the floating girl.
"Taylor," she said, keeping her voice even but firm. "Whatever you're doing, you need to stop. Please. Look at the doctor and the nurse. Look at your father. They're terrified."
At the mention of Danny, the manic glitter in Taylor's eyes dimmed. Her grin softened, then smoothed into a pensive line. She looked down at where her father stood, his arm still extended, pressing uselessly against empty space.
"You scared, Dad?" she asked. Her tone wasn't mocking. It held a strange, almost detached curiosity.
Danny didn't answer immediately. His hand flexed, clawing at the invisible barrier that resisted like thickened syrup. The tendons in his neck stood out.
"Of course I am," he finally breathed, the words ragged. "Why wouldn't I be? This… this isn't you. You don't play games like this. I can't even reach you."
His voice broke on the last word.
"I can't even hug my own daughter."
Taylor watched him.
Her expression shifted. Something gentler slid into place. She propped her elbow on her knee and rested her cheek against her palm, still seated in the air as if gravity were optional.
"I was just messin' around," she said, her gaze flicking from Danny to Hana. "And I'm not really feeling the whole 'physical contact' thing right now. M&M's got a scary-looking gun. And the Power Ranger-lookalike in the back? Yikes, buddy! Too intense for me."
Danny's head snapped towards Hana. His eyes, wide behind his glasses, darted to the space behind her thigh where the weapon was concealed.
"No," he said. He lowered his straining arm and stepped sideways, placing his body squarely between Hana and his floating daughter.
Hana raised both hands, palms open. The revolver at her side dissolved into its characteristic green-black mist, which streamed silently back into her holster, assuming the shape of another gun.
"We heard a scream, Mister Hebert," she explained. "We had to assume the worst. No one wants to hurt Taylor."
Heavy footfalls announced Armsmaster's advance. He stopped just behind Hana's shoulder. She didn't turn.
"That stance is conditional," he stated, his voice a low bass. "It holds only as long as she presents no danger to the civilians in this room and the rest of the hospital. Taylor, is it? I'm Armsmaster. Miss Militia has briefed me already."
"Oh?" Taylor hummed, nestling her cheek deeper into her palm. "Hope she said nice things 'bout me."
"She implied you were difficult. Crying, followed by laughter, followed by jokes. So which state is authentic? Are you amused? Are you in pain? Or are you attempting to communicate something else entirely? I advise you that levitating and terrorizing people is counterproductive no matter your answer."
Taylor leaned forward. Or rather, the space between her and the heroes compressed. She didn't walk; she slid through the air as if on rails, stopping just beyond arm's reach, her cross-legged pose unchanged.
She smiled a flash of too-white teeth.
"I'm sensing some hostility, big guy~" she sang, her eyes bright with a playful light. "Not sure that's the tone you wanna take with the girl who could, I dunno… laser a hole into your helmet with her eyes. Or maybe just think really hard about a lightning bolt smacking you upside your head."
Hana's muscles coiled. Her eyes cut toward Armsmaster. His posture hadn't altered, but she saw the minute twitch in the fingers of his right hand, a micro-adjustment near the controls on his halberd's shaft.
"Are those your projected capabilities?" he asked, neutral.
Taylor giggled in response.
"The better question is… am I actually threatening you?"
"Are you?"
Taylor tilted her head.
And kept tilting.
Her whole body followed, rotating slowly as if on a spindle now. She inverted herself in a smooth, impossible arc until she was sitting upside-down, her gown strangely in place despite the position. The serene smile didn't leave her face.
"You're all so jumpy," she said, biting her lower lip, shaking slightly. "And Armsie here failed the vibe check. Shame on you, big guy~"
She raised, or rather, lowered her open hands while in the air.
"Relax! 'Tis just a test drive. Now take an ibuprofen before your collective blood pressure explodes, yeah? You're so nervous it's making me nervous."
Her eyes, that unsettling crystalline blue, found Hana's. The manic energy was banked, replaced by a performance of calm.
"I'm cool. No one's getting busted up, no one's freaking out," Taylor declared, and punctuated it with a wink. "We cool, M&M?"
Hana's gaze swept the room: the girl suspended in defiance of physics, the hollow-eyed father standing like a ghost behind her, the space Armsmaster occupied, charged with his disapproval. She felt the weight of the decision, the slack she was cutting against every protocol.
Hana gave a single, curt nod.
"…We're cool."
Taylor clapped her hands.
"Sweet! Okay, so, uh, what are we at? Four minutes, twenty seconds? Twenty-one?" She glanced at Armsmaster. "The twerp in the tin suit might want call off the hounds before they start rolling grandmas outta bed."
Armsmaster stiffened. "How did you—"
"I read lips," Taylor explained, tapping a finger against her own smirking mouth.
Hana's mind raced, recontextualizing the solid door, the distance, the muffled nature of the order.
She brushed it all aside and centered herself.
"I'll stay," she said to the hero at her side. "Go. I've got this."
He hesitated. Then, he nodded and backed toward the door, never turning his head away from Taylor. The doctor and nurse didn't wait for permission, slipping out behind him the moment the opening appeared.
The door sighed shut. Silence settled once more.
Hana let out a sigh.
"That was irresponsible."
"Awww," Taylor drawled, drawing out the sound into a whine. She floated a little higher, tilting her head. "Where's my kind, understanding M&M? I went through a life-altering experience. Don't I get a grace period? A little room to be… unglued? I'm the victim here."
Hana crossed her arms.
"That grace period is shrinking."
Taylor's smile flickered.
"You knew exactly what you were doing," Hana accused. "You saw how people reacted. You're making very poor choices right now."
"Floating's a crime now?" the girl asked, faux innocent.
"In under five minutes," Hana began, "you've ignored the laws of physics, casually compared yourself to Jesus and Buddha, antagonized a senior Protectorate leader, demonstrated preoccupying sensory capabilities, and then flaunted them for effect. These aren't symptoms anymore. They're strategies. And I'm left to wonder what you're trying to achieve with them."
Hana extended her right hand slowly, palm open towards Taylor. It was not a reach of comfort, but a probe. An experiment.
Her hand stopped.
She didn't feel resistance. She didn't register pressure. She was advancing… and then she wasn't.
Hana flexed her fingers. Tried again.
Useless.
Her palm wouldn't go past a few inches from the girl's knee. It wasn't a wall, not really, since she didn't feel anything solid pushing back. Hana probed further, sought a vibration, the telltale distortion of an energy field.
There was nothing.
It didn't make sense. 'Nothing' couldn't just push back against you. There had to be something, something invisible, only she didn't have a name for it yet. It was a… a gradient? A thickening of space that went from yielding to immovable within the span of a finger's width.
Even the subtlest powers had a detail that stood out; they interacted with the world in one way or another. A barrier was a clear divide and it could be as sturdy as titanium even if it was invisible. A manipulation of area could also feel obvious if you knew where to look. Hana had seen Vista stretch walls a few inches and even then, she could tell there was something strange going on from the dimensions of the room.
This power, it didn't even feel strange. She didn't feel stopped. The only reason she could tell there was something wrong was because her eyes were unequivocally telling her she wasn't getting any closer.
She clawed at the air again, strained her shoulder. The distance between her fingers and the girl's gown didn't change. It was if the concept of 'forward' in that particular spot had stopped existing.
"There's also this," Hana said quietly. "What is it? An invisible shield? A restricted space? Or a disorienting effect?"
Taylor's bright eyes narrowed, a glint of something colder behind the playful gleam. She tilted her head, her grin turning secretive.
"Ooooh," she said. "You're very close."
Hana didn't move. She didn't respond. Her eyes locked onto Taylor's.
"Very close, yeah~" the girl continued, sing-song. "And also… not at all."
She laughed at her own riddle, shrugging.
"What do I know, anyway? I'm just figuring this out as I go. It's not like I have a manual. You're the expert here, M&M. Why don't you explain to the class?"
Hana withdrew her hand in a second.
This girl was obfuscating. Whether out of fear, control, or the simple euphoria of holding secrets, she knew more than she was letting on.
The non-answer itself was a puzzle. 'Very close, and not at all'. Close in theory, far in practice? Close to the truth, far from understanding? Or was it a literal clue about the mechanics of her power, perhaps affecting proximity itself? In parahuman studies, a taunt and an explanation could often be inseparable if the person themselves didn't know how to put their ability into words.
She didn't linger on it. To do so would be to play Taylor's game.
"Enough," Hana declared, hands settling on her hips. "Please turn it off."
Taylor remained suspended in the air a moment longer. The grin on her face didn't fade. If anything, it stretched.
"And what if I just don't?"
Hana met the girl's gaze, unflinching. She said nothing in response.
Danny flinched as if struck. He dragged a trembling hand through his thinning hair.
"Sweetheart… don't. Don't do this now. It's not a game. Don't make it harder than it already is."
She shrugged, rocking lazily while airborne.
"Who's playing? I ain't. I'm thinking," she said. "What's gonna happen if I don't cooperate? What's the worst they can do? Give me a very stern lecture? Slap my yearbook photo on a wanted poster?"
She snorted. Then she glanced at Hana.
"If you're gonna put a bounty on me, it's gotta be at least seven figures. Make it worth my while."
"That would be exaggerated," Hana said evenly. "But if you walk away without affiliation, you become a rogue."
"Yeah. Cool. I figured as much."
"Rogues don't get protection. They operate without the sanction, resources, or legal protections afforded to affiliated parahumans. More critically, they operate without institutional tolerance."
Taylor's smile stayed on her lips. "So?"
"Commit one crime. A single misdemeanor. Any unauthorized use of your power that results in property damage, public disturbance, or perceived threat and the system closes around you. After that, you don't get to negotiate. Your options collapse into two: conscription into the Protectorate's oversight program, or containment in a facility designed to hold parahumans."
Hana let the consequences sink in. She took a deep breath.
"The courts are not forgiving of rogues. Especially those without a history of cooperation."
"And I'm fresh out of trauma-credit," Taylor chuckled, humorless. "So you can't even pretend to give me the benefit of the doubt."
Hana shook her head. "This is the benefit of the doubt, Taylor. You've demonstrated self-control, awareness. The next logical step is to demonstrate responsibility."
"Pfft – Ha!"
The laugh wasn't the light, manic giggle from before. It was a short, sharp bark that echoed in the room. Hana didn't flinch, but Danny exhaled, seeming unsure if he had to step back or insist to his daughter again.
Taylor wiped a tear from her eye and bit her lip.
"Okay, okay. Look. I like you, M&M. I really do. But you gotta internalize something."
She held up a single finger, her body rotating yet again, shifting in the air as if settling into an invisible throne.
"I. Don't. Have. To. Prove. A single. Thing. To you. Or to your organization. Capisce? Don't try to guilt-trip me into your government-sponsored teen drama. I'm not that desperate for a clubhouse, and your scary stories?" She waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, no. Threats don't work on me."
She leaned back, the crystalline blue of her eyes. Her lips curved.
"I've been waiting for you to actually make an offer. But since you're stuck on the script, I'll cue you. My terms…"
She raised one hand, counting off on her fingers.
"First: a yacht. A nice one. Second: a trip to somewhere exotic, like Hawaii, or, uh, Madagascar. All-expenses-paid. Third: Gucci-brand Crocs. Don't question it. Fourth: a lifetime supply of ice-cream. I believe I mentioned that."
Before Hana could formulate a response, Taylor leaned forward, grin shifting into something more mischievous, eyes glinting. She stuck out her thumb.
"But most importantly… money."
Hana felt a tiny, involuntary tic beneath her eye.
"I… excuse me?"
"Cash! Dough! Mucho dinero!" Taylor's voice dropped to a stage whisper. "Do I get stacks for behaving?"
Hana took a slow breath, re-centering.
"…Yes. As a minor, you would enter the Wards program. They receive a discretionary trust for equipment, expenses, and personal use."
Taylor's playful demeanor evaporated so quickly it almost felt scary. There was a razor-sharp focus in her eyes now.
"How much we talking about?"
"The standard stipend begins at one thousand dollars monthly. Performance incentives and hazard bonuses can increase that."
"Lowball. Bump it to ten grand a month, base. Then we'll talk." A second finger joined the first. "Health insurance. Dental, vision, the whole package. No co-pays."
"All Protectorate-affiliated parahumans receive comprehensive medical coverage. The occupation is classified as high-risk."
Taylor nodded. A third finger extended. The smile returned, edged with something… darker. Predatory.
"Do I get to escalate? When the bad guys show up?"
Danny moved a jerky step closer. He tried to lay a hand on her arm, his fingers splaying against the invisible barrier again. He made a frustrated sound in his throat.
"No. Taylor, no. Absolutely not. I won't allow you to be put in danger—"
"Dad," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "Look outside. The city's held together with duct tape and hope. They'll send me out eventually. It's not an 'if,' it's a 'when'. I wanna know the rules. Can I get… naughty?"
Both Heberts turned their eyes on Hana, one pleading, one probing.
"Wards operate under heavy restrictions," Hana said. "Analogous to police cadets, with greater limitations. Their primary role is support, observation, and training. Direct conflict is a last resort, undertaken alongside and under the directive of adult heroes. The answer to your question is no, Taylor. You will not be permitted to 'get naughty.' Excessive force is not tolerated. We don't even know if you have combat capabilities."
Taylor held her gaze. Her smile didn't waver. Her hand went down.
"I see," she said. "Last question, then."
The girl's head lolled to her shoulder.
"Will Sophia get punished for being a piece of shit?"
Hana didn't bite.
As much as she wanted justice, she couldn't make promises she couldn't see through. Especially not to someone like Taylor. She had to be firm, honest, even if it wasn't ideal.
"There will be an investigation," the hero said.
Taylor didn't smile, or joke, or get angry.
Her blue eyes narrowed at Hana. Then she raised a snowy eyebrow. There was silence for a moment, and she had the dawning feeling that for a few seconds, the girl she was trying to help seemed…. Disappointed.
Then, abruptly, her expression brightened again.
"Okie-dokie!" she chirped.
And she dropped.
It wasn't a fall. It was a cessation. One moment she was levitating, cross-legged and smug. The next, gravity reasserted itself with a soft thump as she landed seated on the edge of the hospital bed, the mattress groaning under her sudden weight. She let out a playful puff of air.
"I'm in. I've just gotta discuss my salary with your boss, but we can make that work," she said, grinning up at Hana. "See? Was that so hard?"
Hana opened her mouth.
Danny moved before she could speak.
He crossed the distance in two steps and pulled Taylor into him, one arm locking around her back, the other pressing her head into his shoulder as if anchoring her there.
"Don't," he said, his voice a thick, shuddering wire of sound. "Don't you ever do that again."
Taylor stiffened.
For once, she didn't quip immediately. Her crystalline blue eyes were wide and unblinking over his shoulder, seeking Hana's as if for translation. Whatever sharpness she'd been wearing drained out of her face, leaving behind a young confusion that somehow suited her more. Her own arms came up, slower, hesitantly, to rest against his back.
"H-Hey, Dad," she mumbled into his collar, her voice muffled, the performative swagger gone. "S'okay. This is all a sink-or-swim thing, right? I'm still figuring it out. Floating, yeah. Get it? Floating, haha…"
A weak huff of laughter. No one joined in.
Hana waited.
When she finally spoke, it came with a quiet breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"You made the right decision."
Taylor cracked one eye open and looked at her. No grin this time. Just a shrug that didn't quite land.
"We'll see if you're still saying that in a week," Taylor responded.
Hana frowned, about to ask, but heavy footsteps cut in from behind her.
She turned. Armsmaster was already marching through the threshold, his helmet panning across the scene: the clinging father, the silent hero, the absence of floating girls and bad jokes.
"Situation resolved?"
"Yes," Hana said, inclining her head. "Mister Hebert, if you'll give me a moment, I'll retrieve the necessary paperwork for Taylor's admission into the Wards. I'll explain the process. She'll need to present herself at the PRT headquarters on Lord Street. There's no immediate urgency, but—"
"The sooner the better," Armsmaster interrupted. "Delay increases the likelihood of complications."
Danny's arms loosened, but he didn't let go. Taylor tilted her head back just enough to look up at him, one eyebrow creeping higher as a smile began to curl again.
"Wow," she said. "We're having a moment, sir. Also, I literally just woke up. Can you keep the protocol in your cyber-pants for a second?"
"I'm with her," Danny said, eyes still damp. "She just woke up. She needs a minute. A weekend, at least. We need to breathe, and maybe… maybe start next week."
Hana and Armsmaster exchanged a look. He clicked his tongue, then waved a hand in concession. Hana nodded.
"Very well," she said. "We'll start next week. In the meantime, you should rest."
Taylor's grin flashed bright and sharp once more. She patted Danny's chest twice and then twisted to face the heroes fully, freeing herself from his arm just enough to throw up a peace sign with her fingers.
"Guess I'm a baby hero now~"
January 10, 2011
I lay on my bed and broke the chocolate bar in my hand with a quick bite.
I felt the clean snap reverberate through my jaw. Then, the slow melt of the piece on my tongue. I savored it slowly and stared at the ceiling of my room.
The ceiling was breathing. Again. Not metaphorically; it was actually moving, though it wasn't the ceiling per se, strictly speaking. I saw a slow shiver in the paint where humidity seeped in. Vibrating pockets of moisture were creeping through, invisible droplets gathering mass.
I found myself tracking the pattern without meaning to.
At current atmospheric saturation and assuming a consistent thermal gradient, visible water damage would manifest in one year, five months, seven days, four hours and approximately fifty-five minutes. Of course, this would only happen if the weather didn't change much and Brockton Bay stayed Brockton Bay. The variables were trivial if I assumed my house was just a math problem and not exposed to an unpredictable world. The dark spots could bloom in a year, or perhaps in a week, or perhaps tomorrow. Maybe there'd be a deluge tomorrow and a stained ceiling would be the last of my problems. Maybe we'd have a drought and I'd feel very stupid.
I didn't know. I saw many things clearly now, and the future wasn't one of them.
I noted the timeline anyway. Filed it away.
After a few seconds, I opened my Eyes. Just a smidge.
The world flared.
The ceiling's dull grey paint turned aggressive, erupted into a luminescent glare, every photon shouting its trajectory and history directly into my brain. Light pooled where it shouldn't, every edge outlined too cleanly, like someone had cranked reality's contrast slider past reasonable.
The ghost of the sun etched into the plaster. It wasn't painful, not really… but it felt a bit annoying to look at.
I shut my Eyes again. The relief was immediate. The sensory torrent transformed into an irritating but survivable stream.
I took another bite from my chocolate. It melted across my tongue again, and this time, I let the data unpack.
The wrapper claimed forty percent sugar, twenty percent cocoa, twenty percent milk powder. My taste buds, guided by something deeper than taste, deconstructed the lie mercilessly. The actual ratios then unfolded: thirty-one point two percent sugar, thirty-nine point eight percent cocoa, a paltry fourteen point nine percent milk powder, the rest filler and emulsifiers and trace oils they didn't even bother advertising.
Cheap-ass corporations. They'd tried to hide the declining quality of their sweets behind glossy packaging and flimsy numbers, but my Six Eyes stripped their illusion bare.
Fake advertising. Fakier chocolate.
…I took another bite.
The nerves in my mouth sang. A sharp, bright sensation raced up my spinal column and fizzed at the base of my skull, behind my Eyes. The hit of sucrose, and glucose, and sweet, sweet fat followed.
I let it happen.
My body, this new, voracious engine, sang a hymn of approval. I felt myself vibrate on the bed for a few seconds. Sugar was fuel, and despite the shitty quality of the chocolate or all the strange things that were happening to me, I still noticed I'd developed a very definite, very insistent appetite.
Another bite.
I lifted the remaining portion, a ragged brown rectangle, and held it in the space before my Eyes. If parsing atomic composition and structural integrity with closed Eyes counted as seeing, then yeah. I could see it all right. It still looked fake. And delicious. Sinfully delicious.
I felt my face twist.
"I don't even like chocolate."
Mom and Dad had always been practical about sweets. It wasn't fanatical, not like the health-nut parents who thought sugar made their kids autistic or something. It was just fiscal responsibility. Chocolate cost money, and cavities cost even more. Dentist appointments were less appointments and more negotiations we couldn't afford to lose, so, I'd never developed a taste for the stuff.
By the time chocolate did show up, it hit me like an ambush. It was too sweet, too loud on the tongue, something I endured for a few bites and then quietly avoided forever.
That part of me hadn't changed… and this was my seventeenth bar in three days.
I rolled the ridiculous, wallet-slaying number in my head. Then, I constructed a narrative: this was just anxiety. A grasp for normalcy, maybe. Something to anchor myself after waking up wrong, after the lights came back sharper than they'd ever been.
The electric jolt from the sugar? A biological hiccup after a coma. Withdrawal, perhaps, only in reverse.
The numbers, the preternatural awareness of molecular percentages, of atmospheric decay rates, of my own body's terrifying metabolic efficiency?
Hallucinations, clearly.
I bit again.
…The logic cracked with the chocolate.
The 'narrative' was brittle. There was no 'new normal'. The very concept of 'normal' was too small for me now.
I didn't like chocolate, but my body craved it. I had no sweet tooth, but I was developing one at a speed that felt supernatural.
Sugar wasn't a luxury now. It was necessity.
The clan elders had forbidden sweets, too. Their reasons were different. Something about tradition, and austerity, and the unseemly spectacle of their heir indulging in modern decadence. I remembered hands being slapped away and grave voices explaining rules I didn't even bother listening to.
I'd started sneaking sweets when I was twelve, not because I particularly enjoyed them, but because I wasn't supposed to. By the time I enrolled at Jujutsu High, I diverted a significant portion of my allowance to a rotating stockpile of candies and cakes. I'd tell Suguru that it was my 'secret hoard', and that only a select few were allowed to gaze upon its 'sweet glory'.
I groaned and pressed my free palm into my temple. The pressure didn't dislodge the memory.
"No," I muttered. "That's not right. I've never been to Japan."
Except I had.
I was born in Kyoto, and then I'd moved to Tokyo. I knew the specific, efficient wrist-flick for using chopsticks, a muscle memory for utensils I'd never held. I could mentally trace tens of thousands of kanji I'd never studied. The steps for a tea ceremony unfolded in my mind with perfect, unwelcome clarity. The proper way to tie an obi, the nuances of etiquette across different dojos… it was all a library of knowledge for a life I'd never lived.
None of it felt borrowed. And none of it felt mine.
It wasn't me.
It was.
I sighed, let myself sink deeper into the mattress. Maybe I could merge with it and escape the confines of my own skull.
We were a… a superposition, yes. A collapsing wave function of contradictory selves.
"For what it's worth, kid," I whispered to the empty air, to the ghost in the machine, "I am trying. Really trying. To be you more than… well, me."
The words didn't comfort me. They tasted false, stupid. A lie offered to an idea of someone.
Who was 'you'? Who was 'me'? Who was I even trying to reassure and who was I trying to leave behind in the process?
The strangest part was that I didn't feel strange.
It was the first time in a while my own skin hadn't felt like an ill-fitting costume. In school, at home, walking down the street… I'd always felt out of phase. Now, something had clicked into a dreadful, exhilarating alignment within me. And the only response my conscience could muster was to insist that this alignment was wrong. That I needed to force myself back out of tune.
…Yeah, no.
I felt fine. Not good, not bad. Fine. Functional. I could make do with this situation without trying hard to feel depressed. The bullies at school had done enough on that front.
I stayed in bed for a few seconds more. The ceiling offered its secrets, its timeline of decay, and my Eyes catalogued them automatically.
I huffed, left my chocolate on the bed. Then I swung my legs over the edge and stood.
"FU – Pancakes!"
The second my bare feet met the floor, sensation detonated. Every grain in the wood announced itself. Dust. Temperature gradients. Microscopic ridges. It felt like stepping onto a living thing made of static.
It wasn't pain, not quite. Featherlight tickling that burrowed into the soles and crawled up my shins. Thousands of needles of information, gentle and stabbing in equal measure.
I hopped back with a hiss, shaking one foot, then the other. It was an undignified jig, an awkward dance that might generously be called Haitian if Haiti specialized in flailing white girls. My shoulder found the wall after a moment, and I pressed my palms flat against the cool plaster for stability.
…Okay, yeah. Dramatic much. But it was all still uncomfortable.
The hospital had cut me loose the same day the heroes finished their recruitment pitch. They let me go with boring forms I'd taken the liberty of 'enriching' and a father who looked a decade older than he was. I was frustrated, and excited, and I had plans. Big plans. I wanted to walk the Boardwalk, feel the city with the new hardware installed. I wanted to stretch my limbs and test this body, find the limits of what jujutsu could do when filtered through the bones and flesh of this girl.
And, come on… I had powers now.
I wanted to do something catastrophically stupid with them.
Instead?
Three days horizontal. Three whole fucking days of chocolate wrappers and bed indentations and sugar-fueled existential dread. If there were an Olympic category for strategic loafing, I'd podium.
Dad didn't complain. He hovered at doorways, asked if I needed water, blankets, chocolate, or just space. He looked relieved every time he caught me doing absolutely nothing. I could see it in the slack of his shoulders, the way his exhale lasted a beat longer when he passed my closed door. His daughter was home. As long as she stayed inside, she was safe. As long as I was safe, he could breathe.
I understood. I had had students, kids, and I'd sent them to hunt curses with their hearts pounding and their techniques half-formed. I had felt sick when they came back battered; I had wanted nothing more than to lock them in the training yard until the world stopped being so eager to break them.
I understood… but coddling wasn't a favor to anyone. Especially not me or to my nerves.
Every inch of me felt flayed open. Air brushed against me and my brain supplied wind speed, humidity, particulate count. The house creaked and I knew which beam shifted and by how much…
…I was an exposed nerve.
There was a difference between being born with the Six Eyes and waking up with them bolted in my eye sockets.
For Satoru, they'd been legacy. For Taylor, they were a transplant. A violent one. I had spent fifteen years with normal eyes, human eyes. Eyes that saw light and shadow and color and left it at that.
The transition wasn't only uncomfortable. It was destabilizing. I didn't sleep, not really, because my eyelids were tissue-paper curtains. I could see the phosphorescent afterimage of my own retinal blood vessels. I could count the motes orbiting a ceiling fan. I could see the precise trajectory of every photon that entered my room, and my brain, traitor organ, insisted on logging every single one just in case.
It only took a glance, a thought, a sliver of attention. Then an hour would dissolve, and I'd blink and find myself sitting in the same position, the chocolate bar in my hand half-eaten and forgotten. Time didn't register anymore sometimes. It was just data, one stream among thousands. Possibilities branched and branched and branched until I manually had to shove them aside or risk floating off into endless what-ifs.
The Six Eyes were a net positive, sure.
Also a constant reminder that something was really wrong with me.
I shivered, and then pushed off the wall. My feet adjusted to the floor and I made my brain push the sensations into the background.
I stepped out of my room.
Downstairs, through walls and insulation, I saw Dad moving in the kitchen. He was at the stove, his shoulders hunched in that particular way that meant he was thinking about Mom.
I didn't call out. I turned towards the bathroom.
The door clicked shut behind me. I turned on the light, humming at sixty hertz, which I could now hear as a distinct, grating frequency. The mirror hung above the sink, a rectangle of ordinary silvered glass.
I faced it, and opened my Eyes.
I looked better compared to my comatose self. The hospital photos had captured something dried, a face with the lights on but nobody home. Now there was color in my cheeks, a faint rosy shade beneath the too-white skin. My white hair had also grown just enough to soften the angles of my face though it was still short. If I kept my mouth shut and my shoulders squared, I could probably pass as a really pretty, sharp-boned boy.
I tilted my head. Looked down.
I was down to a black sports bra and matching boxers. Anything more felt like sandpaper with opinions, and the first night home, I'd nearly torn my pajamas off from overstimulation.
Heat? I could ignore heat well enough.
Cold? Manageable, if I pretended it didn't feel like a million tiny razors skating across my epidermis.
Clothes? Too freaking much. Every movement was friction against the fabric, and every friction was yet another data point demanding attention. It was the equivalent of being exfoliated by cotton.
Chocolate helped. Cake too. Pudding, ice cream, soda… anything that'd give me a jolt, something new to focus on. Keeping my mouth occupied kept my brain busy too.
Worse was the temptation to zoom in. To stare at the bridge of my own nose and watch pores resolve into landscapes. To count the faint blue veins under my skin. To admire the symmetry of me like it was architecture…
I smacked the side of my head.
"Get a grip," I muttered. "You're not the forest. You're the most beautiful person on this planet right now. You're pretty strong too. You've got a wicked sense of humor and, uh, yeah. Did I mention you were beautiful? Oh, intelligent. Yeaaaah. I like your personality. It's very… intelligent-y."
I grabbed my toothbrush. Squeezed toothpaste onto the bristles and pushed it inside my mouth. Blue gel, mint flavor, the chemical composition scrolled across my awareness unbidden.
I brushed. My teeth didn't need it. Bacteria in my mouth had a half-life measured in minutes now, my immune system deleting them with a speed that bordered on aggressive sterilization. My gums wouldn't bleed either. They wouldn't dare.
But… the ritual was grounding. The repetitive motion, the foam, the mint-shock. It was something a person did, not a supercomputer in a meat suit.
Up-down. Circles. Spit. Rinse.
My reflection caught my Eye. I smiled at it with the kind of smile that had made students stammer and enemies hesitate. Then I winked.
"Heeeeey… Sexy."
A second passed.
My cheeks got redder.
Yeah… too embarrassing, even now.
A small internal chime flicked through my mind as I leaned over the sink. My internal clock fed me the numbers. Eight fifty-nine.
Dad and I had agreed on nine o'clock for breakfast. From there, half an hour to the PRT building. I wasn't big on the shady government organization yet, but, hey, at least I could skip school and avoid Emma's stupid face.
Another chime in my head. Nine o'clock.
"Taylor! Breakfast's ready!" Dad's voice, muffled by floorboards and distance. "You awake yet, kidd—?"
"I am! Be down in a sec!"
A pause. His laugh then carried faintly through wood and drywall. I didn't need to see him to know he was smiling, but I did anyway. Just a glance, sliding through the house: the stove off, plates set, shoulders looser than they'd been in a good while.
I finished rinsing. Splashed cold water on my face, let it drip from my chin. Raked wet fingers through my hair, pushing it back from my forehead. The sensation was a thousand tiny announcements of contact, follicle by follicle. I pushed it forward again. Ticklish. Annoying. I left it alone.
I looked down again.
I pinched the small softness at my stomach between two fingers. Pale, marble-white under the bathroom light, not exactly fat, just the absence of defined muscle. Too much chocolate, too little exercise.
"...Gotta hit the gym."
The PRT had to have a gym. If they didn't, I'd make them build one. I'd be very polite and reasonable about it, and then I'd be very unreasonable and impolite, and eventually a gym would appear!
That was how usually things worked.
I wasn't out of shape, not catastrophically. I'd done morning runs, before the locker, before everything. But I could already feel the discrepancy, the gap between what I'd commanded and what I received.
Cursed energy reinforcement could compensate, would compensate, was already compensating. I could probably bend steel with my bare hands if I tried just by applying cursed energy, and the constant stress from my Eyes gave my reserves a small boost. Negative feelings fed negative energy, and so on. But it wasn't a solution, just a crutch.
And besides, I had a big, obvious, stupid problem now.
My arms were too thin. My legs were too short. My center of gravity was a disaster, shifted forward and low in a way that defied every principle of stability I'd spent two decades internalizing. It felt like someone had tilted my entire sense of balance two inches to the left for a joke, but I knew it was worse than that.
The muscle memory of a twenty-nine-year-old man, six feet tall, with the leverage and reach that implied, screaming instructions at the body of a fifteen-year-old girl that couldn't execute them.
The Six Eyes were overcompensating, performing real-time reconciliation between one person and another, and it was working. I wasn't tripping over my own feet. I wasn't punching myself in the face by accident. I wasn't embarrassing myself in any obvious way, really, but I could still feel the inefficiency. The wrongness of it.
…I'd grow into this, in time.
Becoming the Strongest had taken me time and pain, once. I couldn't shortcut that. Couldn't complain my way into a perfected body, a perfected technique. I could only work, and wait, and trust that the girl in the mirror and the ghost in my skull would eventually find equilibrium.
I turned away and exited the bathroom.
I skipped back to my room, an improvised, staccato motion designed to minimize contact time between my bare soles and the floor. Heel-toe, heel-toe, a rhythm that kept the worst of the tactile data at bay. It probably looked ridiculous. I didn't care.
My room was unchanged. Same books, same desk, same careful clutter of a life that had, until recently, been entirely ordinary. I pulled open the closet and surveyed my options.
My repertoire wasn't exactly revolutionary. Before the locker, it had been a rotation of safe colors and softer silhouettes. There were low-profile clothes, loose fits, nothing that could be used as ammunition. Nothing had magically transformed into haute couture after I woke up.
I ran my fingers across hangers and paused.
The bullies had trained me to see my own body as a collection of inadequacies. Too flat here, too soft there, the wrong shape, the wrong size, all wrong in ways they wouldn't explain and I couldn't articulate, but still internalized completely.
I used to dress like an apology.
And, honestly? It was never really about the clothes. Or my body. Or the relative underdevelopment of my chest or the uninviting shape of my ass.
It was about confidence. Presence. The ease of someone who simply occupied space, and belonged in it, and owned it.
Satoru had that in spades, and it wasn't something he learned or earned. Emma was like that too, in her own toxic way. She could walk into a room and just make it comply. I'd watched her do it a hundred times.
At this point, I knew it wasn't magic. It was… knowing. Knowing your worth.
I knew what I was.
I wouldn't settle for anything less.
I smiled to myself. Then, I reached into the closet and pulled the best pieces I had.
First, a black long-sleeved shirt, still soft from washing. I pulled it over my head, worked my arms through the sleeves.
Infinity was still a problem. I couldn't maintain it for more than a day, maybe two or three, without microwaving my brain. I could only manage the basic technique, and UV radiation was a very real threat. My skin was fragile, and while the Six Eyes would detect and repair cellular damage before it could metastasize into cancer, I'd still suffer the cosmetic effects. I'd freckle, and spot, and age prematurely. A shirt that covered everything between skin and sun was the simplest solution.
Over the black, a white t-shirt. It was clean, unworn, snug but not restrictive. I tugged the black sleeves so they extended past the white.
Then, marine blue jeans, my best pair, which meant no holes, no stains, and a hem that hadn't begun to fray. Black belt through the loops, cinched tight. Sneakers, white, the rubber soles still showing the geometric tread pattern of recent purchase.
Finally, I applied some floral deodorant. Also a spritz of perfume, something Mom had bought years ago, half-empty now, the scent faded but still pleasant.
If I was going to meet wrinkly government officials, I might as well smell like I respected bureaucracy. First impressions mattered.
I bounced on my heels. The denim shifted acceptably. A quick kick into the air to test their stretch. I followed with a twist at the hips, a roll of my shoulders. I cracked my neck, then my fingers, purely for theatrics.
I was ready.
On my way out, I noticed the nightstand.
Black rectangular glasses. They were folded neatly beside The Invisible Man, by Wells.
I picked them up, turning them between my fingers.
I slid the glasses on.
The world didn't sharpen. On the contrary, it smudged. My vision remained absolutely perfect but the glasses themselves were a dirty filter now. I could see the microscopic scratches in the lenses, the faint grease from my fingers, the way the light refracted at imperfect angles.
They didn't obstruct anything… they simply couldn't keep up.
Now they were just a thing I'd worn, once. Maybe a prop.
I took them off.
"...Well," I murmured, setting them back on the nightstand. The glasses settled into their usual spot, a familiar shape in a familiar place. "That's one thing I'll miss."
My gaze drifted to The Invisible Man again.
I'd been trying to read it at a normal pace, forcing myself to dwell on each sentence instead of skimming ahead to the end. I'd failed, repeatedly. My brain didn't do slow anymore. It parsed and processed and moved on, leaving the physical book stranded in my wake.
Why had I picked it up before... before everything? I couldn't tell right now. Maybe it'd been the fantasy of having powers and what I could possibly do with them. Maybe it'd been the soothing idea that even if I could be as petty as I'd have liked, invisible, powerful, I wouldn't do it. Because I was righteous.
Was I?
I tapped my head with a finger. The words came back to me smoothly.
"I went over the heads of the things a man reckons desirable. No doubt invisibility made it possible to get them, but it made it impossible to enjoy them when they are got."
The words resounded briefly in my room. Then there was silence.
After a moment, I turned and headed downstairs to have breakfast with Dad.
The drive downtown passed quite normally.
Dad drove with his usual careful attention to traffic, both hands on the wheel, eyes flicking between mirrors and intersections. He looked better than he had at the hospital, clean-shaven, hair combed, a quiet, almost fragile smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
At every red light, though, his eyes flicked sideways. To me.
Then back to the road.
His hands rested at ten and two. The tendons in his wrists trembled just slightly against the steering wheel.
He was excited, maybe. Nervous, definitely. I didn't call him out. I simply leaned back in the passenger seat and let the city pour in.
Engines idling in staggered rhythms. Two pedestrians arguing about rent. Wind threading between buildings. Power lines humming faintly overhead. Somewhere, a dog barked three blocks away. The information layered itself into something almost… musical.
Nothing in particular demanded my full attention. It was easier to drift here in the city, surrounded by noise.
Plus, pancakes. Dad had made pancakes. My stomach was happy, and a happy stomach made everything easier to bear.
"…I won't give the fight up in my li-fe…" I sang under my breath, stretching my arms overhead. "'Cause my life is livin' for lo-ove…"
"Baby? You forgot your glasses," Dad said gently.
"Don't need 'em anymore." I kept my Eyes closed and leaned toward the window, fogging it with my breath. I drew a crooked heart with my finger. "I won't give the fight up in my li-fe… Stand up and groove on time…"
Silence for a beat. Two. Then a chuckle as the car rolled to a stop at a red light.
"What's that you're singing?"
"It's from, uh, an anime."
He nodded slowly. "Anime. That would be…"
"Japanese cartoons," I supplied.
Another chuckle, warmer this time. "Right. I was going to say Chinese."
"Heh. Rookie mistake." I smiled, letting him see it. "Tokyo prison, goin' to relight your fee-lings... when times get too rough, oh yeah..."
The city flowed past. A turn, then another, and suddenly we were on Lord Street, the roadway widening, the buildings taking on the polished, institutional character of downtown Brockton Bay. The PRT headquarters loomed somewhere ahead, a block of windows already visible in the distance.
"Night 'n' day are fading, goin' to relight your fee-lings..." I was fully vibing now, the tune carrying me. "There's no time to ex-plaiiin... Oh! Dad, stop! Stop the car! There!"
"What? What's wrong?" He jerked the wheel just enough to pull over, shoulders going tight again.
I swiveled in my seat, grinning.
"Let's get out! I need to buy something. Two minutes, tops. Come on!"
To his credit, he didn't resist when I practically launched myself from the car and dragged him after me. We were weaving between pedestrians, until I stopped in front of a storefront and pointed.
He stared. Rubbed his chin.
"...An optical shop? But you said you didn't need glasses."
"Prescription glasses, Dad." I shook my head, patient. "Remember how I said everything's shiny? Distracting?"
A slow nod.
"Sunglasses. They'd help. A lot." I gestured at my perpetually closed eyelids. "Isn't it weird that I keep my Eyes shut all the time? It's really weird. With sunglasses, I wouldn't have to explain. People would just think I'm cool and mysterious~"
He considered this.
"I... I suppose it wouldn't hurt to look."
I was already pulling him inside.
The shop smelled of cleaner and metal. There was a young woman standing behind the counter, maybe early thirties. Her eyes flicked to my white hair, my closed lids. She did a visible double take, then let a warm, professional smile settle.
"Welcome! How can I help you today?"
"Sunglasses," I said. "Non-prescription. Just something to cut the glare."
She guided us to the sunglass section, a rotating display rack and wall-mounted cases full of options. Brand names I half-recognized. Prices that made my eyebrows want to rise. Several hundred dollars for the sleek, stainless steel frames, the kind of minimalist engineering that screamed money.
I used to have those, back when money was an abstraction and I bought what I wanted without checking price tags. But I wasn't heir of a rich clan now.
Dad leaned in, his voice low. "Those are pretty expensive."
I heard the unspoken message: we can't afford that. I giggled and pointed at the cheaper end of the display. Monel frames. Slightly heavier, slightly thicker, but functional. Affordable.
"I'd like one of these." I pointed at a pair of round sunglasses, the lenses dark, the frames simple. "Please?"
Dad rubbed the back of his neck, his awkward smile returning. "Taylor, that's still a hundred dollars. And there's also all the chocolate you've been eating. It's all a bit—"
"Please?" I opened my Eyes, just for a second, and gave him the full force of an innocent flutter. Pursed my lips. "Pretty please? Once I get my hero money, I'll pay you back with interest. Pinky promise. Scout's honor!"
I snapped off a two-fingered salute and clicked my heels together for emphasis.
He laughed.
"Taylor, you've never been a girl scout."
"No better time to start!" I beamed. "Pleaaaaase? I'll be the bestest girl scout in the whole wordly world."
He fixed me The Look. The Dad Look. The one that said he'd already decided but was letting the moment stretch, savoring my performance. Then he sighed, in that put-upon way that meant yes.
"...Fine, fine. You get your sunglasses."
"Yeehaw!" I cheered, then slapped my knee for effect.
The clerk giggled, retrieving the display model and offering it to me. "Would you like to try them?"
I nodded, taking the sunglasses with careful fingers. She guided me to a nearby mirror, and I slid them on.
I opened my Eyes.
The world snapped into focus, bright and overwhelming as usual.
The lenses helped as I expected. They muted the glare, softened the edges, gave my Eyes something to work with instead of a shiny everything. Behind the dark glass, the shape of my Eyes was obscured, visible if you looked close, a faint blue gleam beneath the tint, but not the first thing anyone would notice. They also covered my expression.
I could pass for albino now, or just a kid with a weird fashion sense. I wouldn't have to explain the Six Eyes with these. I could just be.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. Tilted my head, studying my reflection. The girl in the mirror stared back, white-haired, sunglassed, a faint smirk curling her lips.
"Lookin' good."
Dad stepped up beside me, studying the reflection.
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Looking good indeed."
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